


More Precious Still

by HSavinien



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Character, Assassins & Hitmen, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/F, Food, Healing, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 06:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: Natalia Romanova has escaped the Red Room and agreed to be under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s control.   She's not sure about it yet.





	More Precious Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samthebirdbae.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=samthebirdbae.tumblr.com).



> Written for Fandom Trumps Hate for samthebirdbae's generous contribution. I hope you enjoy your long-awaited story. Beta thanks to 9ofspades.

* * *

Once upon a time there lived a dragon. She was turned into a spider by those who thought her a tool, but the dragon escaped their web and flew free.

* * *

Something moved in her bed, shifting the blankets by her feet. Natasha grumbled and threw a pillow. Liho yoaaawled a suggestion that it was breakfast time and stretched again, pulling the duvet off Natasha's feet entirely and letting the February chill invade.

“Go away, cat. You don't even live here,” she growled, trying to shove the cat off the bottom of the bed without losing any more warmth.

Liho looked unimpressed and demanded food again, more loudly. Natasha buried her face in the pillow and snarled into it.

The doorbell rang.

That was unexpected. Liho was an _expected_ disruption. She was supposed to be left alone until the papers were completed. Natasha was trusted to be alone, Fury had said. She did not believe him, knew he understood that, and they all pretended nicely.

Possibly not SHIELD, then.

Natasha scrambled out of bed, slid on her slippers, and threw on the fluffy, pale green dressing gown that made her look several years younger. She passed for nineteen when she moved in last week and intended to continue that cover. She rumpled her hair carefully before even peering through the peephole. There was a young woman outside. She was blond, a little younger than Natasha, not visibly armed, wearing an inexpensive professional-looking navy pantsuit and cream blouse. Her shoes were blue, embossed leather with a round toe and no heel – the sort of thing that implied social worker or teacher, someone that had less-fashionable expectations in dress and expected a lot of time on her feet, not an office worker. Her eyes flitted casually around, in a cheerful, tired way, and she rocked on her toes a little bit, waiting patiently. She carried a piece of paper with pushpin holes in the corners.

Natasha didn't believe an inch of it. She opened the door partway and peeked out. “Yes, hello?”

“Hi, sorry, I'm your neighbor across the hall,” the woman waved behind herself, “Sharon. There's a building potluck this weekend and I wanted to make sure you saw the sign-up.”

Natasha took the proffered paper and inspected it. “I don't really know a lot about cooking for more than one or two people,” she said dubiously.

“Don't worry, no one expects high cuisine or anything,” Sharon said, grinning. “I grabbed the paper before all the spots had been filled in for starches. Can you do a pot of mashed potatoes or rice? You're a student, right? I know what it's like to be working on that kind of budget.”

“Yes, a dance student,” Natasha agreed. _Blend in, look normal, pleasant, and safe_. “I suppose the internet could tell me how to make potatoes with garlic for a group. How many people would be there?”

“Oh, about half the building will drop by. We do it about once a month. But don't worry about feeding _everyone_. If everybody brings something that serves six, we've got plenty and leftovers to take home afterwards.” Sharon smiled: normal, pleasant, and safe.

Natasha still didn't believe it. She smiled and added her apartment number, “N. Elanovia,” and “garlic mashed potatoes” to the paper before giving it back. “Thank you for letting me know. It's nice I'll get a chance to meet everyone.”

She was awake and out of bed, so she filled a dish with cat food for Liho, stretched and ran through the quick version of her exercises. After a shower, she made herself oatmeal with milk and cherries and it wasn't kasha, but she ate it anyway. Today she was to familiarize herself with the city, with the ridiculous archer to mind her, and Agent Hill in their ears as a leash. And buy potatoes, apparently.

* * *

 

Clint Barton knew the location of every tiny mom-and-pop (or ammi-and-baba) grocery and deli in a five mile radius of his own non-SHIELD apartment.

By mid-afternoon, so did Natasha. Luckily, enough of them were within easy walking distance of hers, even carrying ten pounds of potatoes, three heads of garlic, and a pound of butter.

* * *

 

She got used to the potlucks. Natasha attended about one in three and when she spoke to people, focused her personal talk exclusively on Liho, which seemed to be an acceptable compromise. Sharon was at every one, her sharp-faced, sweet-tempered dog lounging beside the chair and accepting surreptitious crackers from toddlers while Sharon chatted with their parents.

Sharon talked about the administrators she had to deal with, told funny stories about coworkers, including one about an adorable asshole kitten that one of them rescued from a subway car. Natasha listened, smiled, laughed in the right places, and picked through them for elisions and carefully avoided details.

* * *

 

It was the kitten-subway story that gave Natasha the direction. Sharon hadn't been so indiscreet as to mention street names or train numbers, but she picked out even vague descriptions of stairs and corridors fighting a scared ball of fuzz and recognized the station.

Sharon got off the train at the same station Natasha did when reporting to SHIELD.

The next day, she requested two minutes of Director Fury's afternoon.

“I found my minder,” she said.

“Agent Barton was hiding?” he asked blandly.

“The other one.”

Agent Fury regarded her coolly, then, without shifting his gaze, pressed the intercom button. “Agent Thirteen to my office.”

“ _Yes, sir_.”

A few minutes later, Natasha and Sharon were sent out to “Get coffee or visit the training room together and bond or something.”

Natasha stared at Sharon until she shrugged and turned for the door, then followed her out.

“So, coffee, training, or something else?” Sharon asked. Her voice was a little different. Calmer, less relentlessly cheerful.

Natasha bared her teeth. It could have been a smile. “I would be happy to see what you can do in the training room.”

“ _Natasha_ ,” the intercom beside her said in a tinny version of Nick Fury's voice. “ _Remember what you want to be to SHIELD_.”

“Of course, sir,” she said blandly.

* * *

 

“If I was a double-agent, you would be dead,” Natasha said. Sharon grunted and twisted out from under her, dodging Natasha's grab.

Sharon rolled back onto her feet and into a ready crouch. “If you were a double-agent, you wouldn't be in a position to kill me because Fury'd have you in a holding cell.” She shrugged. “Your potatoes are very good.”

Natasha waved a hand. “Psh, potatoes are easy. Even Clint can make them.”

“He's not that bad,” Sharon laughed. “He just isn't good at cooking for fewer than six.”

“Maybe I'll make him do the next potluck then.”

Sharon dodged Natasha's leg-sweep. “Sure. I suggest his veggie chili.” She feinted right.

Natasha stepped into the feint and put Sharon on the ground, pinned her, and held on long enough to make her point. “Fine, I forgive you for doing your job.”

“I'm just glad Fury didn't make me move. Janey hates that. Coffee? Somewhere not the canteen?”

“...Fine.”

* * *

 

Sharon took the lead again, and brought Natasha to the nearest not-Starbucks.

“So, how's life in a shady quasi-governmental organization that _didn't_ raise you going?” she asked, once they were sitting. Sharon inhaled the aroma of her espresso and took a tentative sip.

Natasha shrugged. “I haven't been instructed to kill or have sex with anyone yet.”

Sharon set the cup down carefully. “You know they aren't going to  _make_ you do either of those things, right?”

She shrugged again and sipped the blueberry hyssop tea.

“I'm serious, Natasha.”

Natasha smiled at her. “It's nice you think that. I am here because I am more useful alive than dead. Those are the things I was taught to use.”

Sharon scrubbed her hands over her face, then steepled her fingers and considered Natasha over top of them. “There's nothing I can say that will change your mind right now. I hope you'll stay around long enough to see some alternatives.”

“Maybe,” Natasha said. She swirled her tea around and watched the door.

* * *

 

Finally, there was a mission. Babysitting. Training work, but work. The handler was green and so talkative that Natasha kept clenching her teeth waiting for his rambling to reach some sort of useful information.

It was likely a test. She would try not to hurt him.

Natasha was to escort a scientist giving a presentation at a sustainable energy conference, identify any threats to her, and neutralize them.

“You're going to be a Romanian aide, assigned by the conference to help get her to her lecture and the panel discussion and lunch afterwards,” he reminded her. The handler had told her that three times already and attempted to quiz her on her Romanian. The handler did not speak Romanian and was relying on internet translations.

She smiled at him, politely, though perhaps with too many teeth.

The scientist, Dr. Khawaja, was elderly, pleasant, entirely focused on her notes and her current cup of coffee, and patted Natasha's arm whenever she was close enough. Natasha mostly managed not to flinch.

Midway through the second afternoon, her earpiece beeped. _“How's it going?”_ a cheerful female voice asked.

“Carter. What are you doing on comms?”

“ _Simonson is incompetent in the field. Hill shifted him back to data entry.”_

“Do you speak Romanian?”

“ _Yes, but my accent's terrible.”_

“You're an improvement, then. What's on the radar?”

The rest of the op went smoothly enough, mostly routine surveillance and PA duties. There was only one minor kidnapping attempt and Natasha escorting a male colleague of Dr. Khawaja's away in an armlock for getting too friendly with some research notes he had  _not_ been invited to look at.

Natasha saw the doctor safely on her plane home, then headed back for pickup. Her phone rang in the car.  _“Good job, Romanov,”_ Sharon said.  _“Debrief with Liang when you get in, then tamales at mine if you want.”_

Her eyes flicked skeptically toward the radio for a moment. “Maybe. The cat will be complaining.”

“ _Probably. I left a tin of food out for her every morning, but she won't let me near enough to touch her.”_

Natasha was absolutely not smug about that.

* * *

 

This was how it went. A milk-run mission. A week or two of petting the cat, training (physical and social). A potluck dinner, with Janey inching closer to Natasha's chair and Natasha certainly not feeding her table scraps, not at all, she just dropped things once in a while by accident. Fury took her to the park and gave her shredded lettuce, directed her to throw it at the ducks, and leaned back in the sunshine. Barton told her terrible jokes and showed her rooftops. Sharon suggested sparring, pizza, movies on her couch. Sometimes Natasha agreed.

* * *

 

This target was an oil mogul who didn't particularly care if the people in her employ died getting the oil out of the ground.

Fury had given her instructions. _No collateral damage. Eliminate the target_. _Do not be seen._

It was familiar (most of it). Natasha was given a housekeeping uniform with a digital mask built into the wig and a vial of neurotoxin that would simulate the effects of a stroke.

She got in, scrubbed twelve toilets, and mixed the neurotoxin into the target's face cream.

And, as she was leaving the target's room, she passed the woman's five year old niece, bobbed an abbreviated curtsy, and caught a whiff of the same amber oil that was in the face cream.

_No collateral damage._ It was not a familiar order. She turned back and caught the girl's arm.

The child pulled away with a yelp and a mighty frown, smacking ineffectively at Natasha's hand. _No collateral damage._ Natasha's mind blanked for only a second of indecision, long enough for the girl's indignation to shade toward fear. She jerked back, trying to break Natasha's grip, and let out a shriek that would summon half a dozen security guards before Natasha could clap a hand over her mouth. Natasha twirled the girl around, whipped a closet door open and dropped the child inside, slamming it shut and breaking the handle with a quick twist.

She bolted back into the target's bathroom. The child could come back and use some of the face cream at any time if she left it. _No collateral damage._ Natasha pocketed the jar, swept the wig off and shook her hair free, then tied an unused cleaning rag over it. She was industriously (re)scrubbing the toilet when three security guards burst into the room, guns out. She squeaked in fear, clutching the scrub brush, The leader barked the expected questions and she assured them in a trembling voice that she had certainly not seen a blond housekeeper come into the room, no sirs, she'd been working in here by herself for ten minutes, and knew nothing. The men searched the obvious spots, then left her alone. She climbed out the window.

* * *

 

Natasha was extracted. She sat in the plane and listened to the scratching violin of _Arlekinada_ _¹_ play and replay in her head, counting the beats automatically.

She reported to SHIELD HQ, passed agents and clerks in stone-faced silence, and was directed to Fury's office.  _Well, better he do it himself_ , Natasha thought. His back was to her, and he gazed out the window. She stepped up to the desk, clasped her hands behind her back, and stared at nothing, a fixed point above Fury's shoulder.

“Black Widow,” he said finally.

“Sir.”

“Tell me about the mission.”

She did so, with only the spare details required. She did not offer any excuse.

He turned and regarded her, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. “Her name is Amalija,” Fury said.

“The girl?” Natasha frowned. “Yes.”

“Thank you, Agent, that will be all.”

Natasha stared at him. “What?”

“Thank you, Agent,” Fury repeated. “You have fulfilled your mission to the parameters given you. We'll find an alternative approach to deal with the target.”

“I-”

“We are not in the business of killing children,” Fury said. “Mistakes happen, and there are unintended casualties, but you acted to prevent the likely death of a child, exercising good judgment in the execution of your orders.” His face softened. “You are not in my office to be disciplined, Romanov, merely debriefed.”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha said, hands wrapped tightly around each other to prevent them shaking.

“That will be all.” Fury nodded at her and turned back to the window. “I expect to see you on Saturday. We'll be taking a walk around Harlem.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

 

Natasha left silently and made her way to the observation deck.

Sharon found her there, joined her sitting on the floor in the corner looking out at the sky, far enough up that the occasional bird was the only thing interrupting the view.

When Natasha looked over, she offered a cookie wrapped in a paper napkin, then returned to watching the sky.

Natasha ate a bite – ginger, sharp and crystalline. Too much sweetness would have choked her just then. Beside her, Sharon had a cookie too and Natasha watched her out of the corner of her eye. Sharon ate in small bites, crumbs caught in the napkin, then collected them with a licked fingertip until only paper remained.

It was a habit that might have come from a time of hunger or too few treats. Natasha ate the rest of her cookie carefully and let herself relax, just a little.

* * *

Sharon worked a mission with her in rural Illinois, ambling arm in arm with Natasha through a local art show in the park. The town was a bit larger than the rest in the area, surrounded by corn fields, and the artists showed off everything from little blown-glass chili peppers to abstract lino prints to watercolors of animals to welded-metal lawn sculptures. The show was a cover for their presence tracking down a meth lab that seemed to have ties to A.I.M.; enough people came in from out of town for it that they'd go unnoticed.

Natasha wasn't sure why both of them were needed for what seemed like an uncomplicated mission unlikely to blow up, but followed Sharon's wandering through the art show, three antique stores, and the local ice cream parlor without complaint. Sharon grinned at her and cuddled close for the cover story, and Natasha found that she didn't mind it.

That night, breaking into the meth lab, she watched Sharon's economy of movement and concentration, and it was...good to see. It was pleasant to work with her, in some different way than Natasha enjoyed working with Clint Barton, and she was glad that the half-dozen men and women they arrested were too surprised to put up much of a fight. Most of them were locals – poor and deep in what Barton called the Bad Decision Zone – but the two white men in expensive shoes they bagged for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s special attention.

When they'd packed up, Sharon drove back to the pickup point in the beat-up red sedan, tapping her fingers on the wheel in time to the terrible country station that was all the radio had to offer.

“I'm on assignment with Barton starting this weekend,” Natasha said, examining the chipped polish on her nails. “Out of the country. Will you watch the cat?”

Sharon glanced at her without turning her head away from the road. “Sure, I don't mind. You've never asked before.”

“No,” Natasha agreed.

* * *

Budapest was a shitshow. Clint had a great time. Natasha did not. Clint came up with fourteen different puns about Hungarian food while they were fighting their way out, and she managed not to stab him in the foot, which was noted as a win all around.

By the time they'd made it back and debriefed, Natasha was sore, exhausted, and starving. She did not hurt the people at the takeout place, but the frightened looks she got indicated that she had best choose a different restaurant in future.

Trudging into the apartment building, she had only enough energy to make the most basic security checks. She finally got the key in the lock of her apartment, dropped her bag, slumped onto a stool, and was already halfway through her burrito before she realized that Sharon was slumped asleep on one end of the sofa with Liho curled in a ball at the opposite end. Janey looked up from the floor and panted at Natasha in a doggy grin.

She was too tired to be alarmed and Sharon was safe enough. And wasn't that a strange thought.

* * *

 

Natasha could hear dripping, which was bad, and hoarse breathing, which was good. The first meant that Barton was still bleeding, the second meant he was still alive. She tried to shift close enough to see him, but the joist creaked under her and she froze. The wood was old and Natasha wasn't sure all the bolts were still in place; those that were had probably half-succumbed to rust ten years ago.

She slid slowly backwards. There had to be another way to get to the men holding Barton without being seen. There were too many of them, too heavily armed to take out without her guns and if they saw her, they'd just kill Clint, so that wasn't an option either. He didn't deserve to be left behind. Natasha rested her forehead on her hands, the slick-grit of dust and sweat scraping between them. Barton seemed to have wandered his way onto the list of of people whose individual existence she cared about. It was really getting unacceptable.

Feeling her way with the toes of her boots, Natasha managed to edge back onto a more solid beam and take stock. Two knives, a smoke grenade, and the garrote wire left. She had a small emergency kit, a grapnel and cord, a nearly empty canteen.

Well. They'd have to piss some time and even mercenaries with an active enemy loose didn't usually like to do that in groups.

The first man who failed to return from his trip to the bushes wasn't noticed. When the second one hadn't come back after fifteen minutes, the apparent boss sent out a search party of three. Natasha snarled silently, frustrated. She watched them scurry around, but they were well-trained enough not to stray from each other's sight and they all had earpieces in, so no hope of taking them all out before they called for backup.

Natasha tried her com again, hoping to get something besides static in her ear.

_Kssh. Ksssssh. Kssh._ Pause.  _Kssh._ Pause.  _Kssh. Ksssssh. Ksssssh._ That was deliberate. Natasha focused and translated as the message repeated, over and over. 2

Extraction. She just had to keep Barton alive until it got there. Distraction time it was. Natasha fetched the matches and tinder out of her emergency kit and went looking for the most conveniently flammable part of the building.

Once it was properly aflame, the smell of burning woodrot stinking up the place for a mile around, she crept back to keep an eye on Barton. She even managed to get a little bit of water into him before the guards came back.

It was perhaps a little easier to care when there wasn't anyone around coherent enough to witness it.

* * *

 

Sharon was on the extraction team. Natasha's right knee was sprained, she had lost her garrote and one of her knives, and was keeping the mercenaries off Barton with her last knife when Sharon blew in like a tornado. Natasha had never seen her fight an enemy that was a real threat before. She was as vicious and precise as an attack dog, using every bit of her environment and the dirtiest street tactics to take the men down.

It took both of them to get Clint to the helicopter. The medics took charge of him and Sharon gave Natasha a water bottle and stared at her until she drank it. As the building erupted into a ball of fire behind their helicopter, Sharon handed over a paper bag she pulled from under her seat. It was near-translucent with butter and smelled like the deli two blocks down from their apartment building. Natasha inhaled the pirogi, not caring that they were stone cold.

“Will you come walk Janey with me tomorrow afternoon?”

Natasha glanced up at Sharon through her lashes. She wasn't looking, just scraping the ragged edge of a cuticle with her thumbnail. Natasha took her hand to stop it. “Two thirty,” she said.

Sharon looked up at her then and smiled. It shouldn't have made Natasha's heart warm.

* * *

 

Clint was recovering fine, the medical staff assured her. He'd needed a transfusion and would be on bedrest for long enough that he would be irritating everyone around him. Natasha made a mental note to bring him a dartboard and some darts with terrible flights to keep him busy.

Fury took her debrief, nodding along as she described the fire and the steps she had taken to protect Barton.

“Thank you, Agent Romanov. Here.” He tossed her a plastic baggie. She caught it, glancing quickly at the contents before she pocketed it.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed. Take three days. I'll see you on the range this weekend.” Fury nodded at her.

Natasha left, changed into her civvies, and went back to her apartment. She unlocked the door, pulled a treat out of the baggie for Liho and stored the rest in the fridge. While they wouldn't spoil, Liho was an expert treat-finder and container-destroyer. Dropping the treat in the bowl by the door, Natasha washed up, set a phone alarm, and went to crash in bed for a few hours before it was time to meet Sharon.

She woke up to the cat kneading her hair. Natasha groaned and shoved her away, pawing for her phone. 1 p.m., too early for her appointment with Sharon.

Natasha rolled out of bed and started doing her stretches, counting breaths and trying to focus only on what her body was doing. She ended up in a plank, sweat trickling down her back and stomach. She held it, breathing with forced steadiness for two...four...five minutes, then dropped down, cheek pressed to the wood. Natasha sighed.

* * *

 

She had been taught fairy tales, of course. They're stories of how humans see the world. Natasha thought she wouldn't be the heroine in any of the fairy stories, nor the witch, not really.

She saw herself in the dragons, perhaps. Armor to protect, bite to defend, valuables made safe.  _Mine. My people. My creatures. My place_ .

It was uncomfortable having more things to protect. It was worrying. More vulnerable places exposed to enemies if they found out, if she faltered, if _they_ fell themselves. Liho took care of herself, but Natasha would sorrow if she lost her. And humans! First had been Barton – terrible jokes, unerring aim, and a tour of every Russian bakery in the city until they found one that spiced things the way she liked. Second, Fury – support and direction, treats for her and the cat she didn't own, walks in the park and streets of his childhood (or at least the version of it he shared with her). Finally, Carter – cheerful ruthlessness, wolfish efficiency and pack bonds as intense and sudden as lightning, and always gifts of food and company.

It was too much, but thinking of the world without those connections made her skin crawl with a sudden shock of loneliness.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

* * *

 

Natasha was freshly showered and masked in smiles when Sharon knocked.

Janey did a graceful little lovey dance around Natasha's legs to have her ears rumpled. Sharon took one look at Natasha's face, grimaced, and shook her head. “All right, what's up?”

Natasha blew out a breath, letting her face fall into the neutral expression it wanted to be in. “I'll tell you at the park.”

“Really?”

“Probably.”

Sharon patted her shoulder, telegraphing it to let Natasha move away. She didn't.

“All right. Janey! Who wants a walk?”

The dog wiggled furiously.

They managed to get her downstairs with only a few stop-and-sniffs, her whippy tail beating at Natasha's legs in joy.

* * *

 

Janey watered three trees on the way to the park, and they didn't talk. When they reached a bench with a good view of the duck pond and the dog had settled with a stick to chew, Natasha stared into the distance and tried to think of the best way to start.

Sharon handed her a plastic-wrapped brownie and started eating one herself.

Natasha looked down at it and sighed. “How are you like this? _Why_ are you like this? I don't understand you and you keep feeding me. This is strange.”

Sharon shrugged. “You need to eat more. Aunt Peggy always said you couldn't beat courting a girl with food.”

“And she would know?” Natasha asked, half-serious.

“Well, she was the first other bisexual person I ever knew and lived with Aunt Angie for years, so...yes.” Sharon picked a fallen chunk of brownie off her jacket and popped it in her mouth. “I mean, Uncle Gabe wasn't a slouch in the kitchen either, but Peggy and Angie met when Angie was still working as a waitress and was the beloved provider of tea and extra bread rolls.”

Natasha digested that. “So,” she said slowly, “courting.”

“If you're amenable. I like you. I admire your...many and varied skills. I think you're kinder than you pretend and I'd like to date you, if you're interested.”

“You're very matter-of-fact about it.”

Sharon leaned forward a little, watching Natasha. “I thought you might appreciate directness. As unusual as it is for your life.”

“I'm – you know – I'm ace, that's why Barton bought me all that purple clothing.”

“Yeah, I'd picked that up. Not aromantic, though, unless I've misread?”

“No, that's not the problem. I'm...” Natasha paused for a moment of thought. “Concerned that a compromise of your safety might mean vulnerability for me.”

Sharon considered that, awkward phrasing and all. “Would dating me increase the fear or make it easier to watch my back? On the other hand, would treating me like simply a colleague from now on make it easier for you to see me get hurt?”

Ducks scattered in a flurry of quonks as two Canada geese landed in the pond. Natasha listened to the muted hum of the city, Janey cracking her stick into smaller pieces, and Sharon beside her. She thought about a quiet presence beside her on the floor of the S.H.I.E.L.D. observation deck, their hands linked in Illinois, food on the table in the little apartment that wasn't a home, a whirling snarl of brutality in a burning building. Natasha considered the problem of shoving that away behind a careful barrier.

She reached over slowly and took Sharon's hand.

“You make a good point.”

* * *

* * *

 

Coda:

Natasha basked. Sharon was braiding her hair, Liho had stretched into a crescent curve of sleepy cat along her leg, Janey lay beside the couch with the occasional deep sigh and look of adoration. Sharon was practicing fishtail braids on Natasha's recently grown-out hair. It felt lopsided, but Sharon's hands were gentle with the brush and carded warm and soft through tangles. Bribed with the promise of dog cuddles and terrible reality tv, Clint had filled the crockpot with onions, beef, carrots, and spices before running out two hours ago, promising to make it back in time for dinner with a loaf of fresh bread and something to drink. The kitchen was starting to smell wonderful. Nick might coincidentally appear with cream cake just in time for dinner. He was about due.

With warm cat in front of her, gentle scarred hands in her hair, food happening without her effort, and the promise of three more days off before she had to go babysit a rich engineer with more brains than sense, Natasha was content. Claws sheathed, valuables safe.

* * *

 

¹ [Natasha's song](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:%D0%A4.163_%D0%BE%D0%BF.1%D0%B3_%E2%84%9623_\(1\).ogg).

2 [Morse code message](http://vocaroo.com/i/s0dGQYckac0Y).

 


End file.
